


Gríma Wormtongue

by hennethgalad



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-09
Updated: 2016-12-09
Packaged: 2018-09-07 12:04:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8800159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hennethgalad/pseuds/hennethgalad
Summary: Saruman recruits Gríma





	

 

                   Gríma Wormtongue

 

  
   The orcs rose from the tall grass on either side of the road, arrows like a flock of birds sliced sideways into the patrol. Gríma felt an agonizing pain in his knee and clutched his leg with both hands. Arrows ploughed into the flesh of his chestnut horse, which screamed and reared, throwing him to the ground and stunning him. 

   When he awoke, someone in white was grabbing him by the shoulder, which was in considerable pain. He shouted, the stranger jerked his arm and the pain in his shoulder diminished from a furnace roar to a low fire.

   The stranger said 'I have set your shoulder, you dislocated it when you fell.' Gríma looked down, the arrow had been removed and his leg bandaged tightly.  
   'Drink this.' the stranger offered him a silver flask, he sipped, it was strong but smooth, warming and relaxing.

   He thanked the stranger 'But who are you ? I am Gríma, soldier of the Mark, under Théoden King.' The stranger sat down beside the fire he himself must have made and smiled at Gríma, his thoughtful, intelligent face lighting up, his clever eyes shining in the flickering light

   'I am called Saruman, I study the stars, the plants and the hearts of men.' Gríma, from habit, tried to rise, but his leg instantly stopped him.

   'Yes' said Saruman, 'I withdrew the arrow and cleaned the wound. I think you will not lose the leg, if you do not become infected - you seem not to have been poisoned, but the Enemy has many poisons, some very subtle in both aroma and effect, so it may be too early to ascertain that. However, I fear you will not be a soldier henceforth.' 

  
   Gríma bowed his head. To ride into battle singing with family and friends beside you was the greatest joy and glory a man could know. What was there for him now but to sit by the fire with the women as they did their endless weaving. He hung his head and clenched his teeth, determined not to cry.

   'You will be able to walk, and ride a horse' said Saruman 'Eventually.'

  
   Gríma looked up at him, a sudden thought came to him, like a thunderbolt from a cloudless sky 'Sire, my lord Saruman, perhaps I could be your student, your apprentice, help you with your work, learn from you...' Saruman looked at him with surprise.

   'Would you like that ? Its mainly indoor work, you know, peering at books all day, its difficult too, and dull... Still, it might be an idea... I have been worried that your people are set in their ways, and there are many things I could teach them. With you there to explain things it would be much simpler.'

  
   The eyes grew larger, and Saruman's voice seemed to fill the world, to be rising out of the ground like the orcs had...

   Something was not right 'I feel strange...' Gríma said.

   'Drink again, you are in a state of shock. The drink will ease your heart.' Gríma suddenly realised that they were alone 'My brethren, the other soldiers...'

   Saruman looked sadly down at his hands. 'I'm sorry, my friend, not one survived but you. I had my people bury them in a mound at the site of the massacre, and carried you down to the water myself.' Gríma realized that the murmur of a gentle stream blended with the crackle of the fire. He could see reeds at the edge of the firelight. He looked at the white-bearded old man, the wise and famous wizard who lived in the mighty tower of Orthanc.

   'You have saved my life, sire, I am at your service.' He tried to bow, but felt sick. Saruman gave him water, and he drank it gratefully.

 

 

  
   Many years later Gríma, who knew very well what they called him in Meduseld, behind his back; asked Saruman if he had ordered the ambush.

   Saruman had thrown back his head and laughed loudly 'I knew you would work it out in the end. It took you longer than I expected, I must say.'

   Gríma looked at him with loathing 'You shot me !'

   Saruman shrugged 'Would you have preferred that I shot you in the head ?'

   Gríma clenched his teeth and thought "sometimes..."

 

 


End file.
